Something Borrowed
by 159-Hikarus-Luver-951
Summary: Haruhi was a young attorney working hard. She was always the teachers pet, and classmate good girl. Until one day her best friend Renge throws her a party. That night, after to many drinks, she ends up sleeping with her best friends fiancé Hikaru.
1. Chapter 1

**Something Borrowed**

**A/N:I don't own Ouran High School Host Club they belong to **

**Summary: Haruhi was a young attorney working hard. She was always the teachers pet, and classmate good girl. Until one day her best friend Renge throws her a party. That night, after to many drinks, she ends up sleeping with her best friends fiancé Hikaru. She is determined to put the one-night fling behind her. Until, she finds out she is developing feelings for him. As the September wedding date comes. Haruhi knows she has to make a choice. In doing so, she finds out that you have to take risks to have true happiness.**

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter One

I was in the fifth grade the first time I thought about turning thirty. My best friend Renge and I came across a perpetual calendar in the back of the phone book, where you could look up any date in the future, and by using this little grid, determine what the day of the week would be. So we located our birthdays in the following year, mine in May and hers in September. I got Wednesday, a school night. She got a Friday. A small victory, but typical. Darcy was always the lucky one. Her skin tanned more quickly, her hair feathered more easily, and she didn't need braces. Her moonwalk was superior, as were her cart-wheels and her front handsprings (I couldn't do a handspring at all). She had a better sticker collection. More Michael Jackson pins. Forenza sweaters in turquoise, red, and peach (my mother allowed me none-said they were too trendy and expensive). And a pair of fifty-dollar Guess jeans with zippers at the ankles (ditto). Renge had double-pierced ears and a sibling-even if it was just a brother, it was better than being an only child as I was. But at least I was a few months older and she would never quite catch up. That's when I decided to check out my thirtieth birthday-in a year so far away that it sounded like science fiction. It fell on a Sunday, which meant that my dashing husband and I would secure a responsible baby-sitter for our two (possibly three) children on that Saturday evening, dine at a fancy French restaurant with cloth napkins, and stay out past midnight, so technically we would be celebrating on my actual birthday. I would have just won a big case-somehow proven that an innocent man didn't do it. And my husband would toast me: "To Haruhi, my beautiful wife, the mother of my children and the finest lawyer in Indy." I shared my fantasy with Renge as we discovered that her thirtieth birthday fell on a Monday. Bummer for her. I watched her purse her lips as she processed this information.

"You know, Haruhi, who cares what day of the week we turn thirty?" she said, shrugging a smooth, olive shoulder. "We'll be old by then. Birthdays don't matter when you get that old."

I thought of my parents, who were in their thirties, and their lacklustre approach to their own birthdays. My dad had just given my mom a toaster for her birthday because ours broke the week before. The new one toasted four slices at a time instead of just two. It wasn't much of a gift. But my mom had seemed pleased enough with her new appliance; nowhere did I detect the disappointment that I felt when my Christmas stash didn't quite meet expectations. So Renge was probably right. Fun stuff like birthdays wouldn't matter as much by the time we reached thirty.

The next time I really thought about being thirty was our senior year in high school, when Renge and I started watching the show Thirtysomethingtogether. It wasn't one of our favorites-we preferred cheerful sit-coms like Who's the Boss? and Growing Pains-but we watched it anyway. My big problem with Thirtysomething was the whiny characters and their depressing issues that they seemed to bring upon themselves. I remember thinking that they should grow up, suck it up. Stop pondering the mean-ing of life and start making grocery lists. That was back when I thought my teenage years were dragging and my twenties would surely last for-ever.

Then I reached my twenties. And the early twenties did seem to last forever. When I heard acquaintances a few years older lament the end of their youth, I felt smug, not yet in the danger zone myself. I had plenty of time. Until about age twenty-seven when the days of being carded were long gone and I began to marvel at the sudden acceleration of years (reminding myself of my mother's annual monologue as she pulled out our Christmas decorations) and the accompanying lines and stray gray hairs. At twenty-nine the real dread set in, and I realized that in a lot of ways I might as well be thirty. But not quite. Because I could still say that I was in my twenties. I still had something in common with college seniors.

I realize thirty is just a number, that you're only as old as you feel and all of that. I also realize that in the grand scheme of things, thirty is still young. But it's not that young. It is past the most ripe, prime child-bearing years, for example. It is too old to, say, start training for an Olympic medal. Even in the best die-of-old-age scenario, you are still about one-third of the way to the finish line. So I can't help feeling uneasy as I perch on an overstuffed maroon couch in a dark lounge on the Upper West Side at my surprise birthday party, organized by Renge, who is still my best friend.

Tomorrow is the Sunday that I first contemplated as a fifth-grader playing with our phone book. After tonight my twenties will be over, a chapter closed forever. The feeling I have reminds me of New Year's Eve, when the countdown is coming and I'm not quite sure whether to grab my camera or just live in the moment. Usually I grab the camera and later regret it when the picture doesn't turn out. Then I feel enormously let down and think to myself that the night would have been more fun if it didn't mean quite so much, if I weren't forced to analyze where I've been and where I'm going.

Like New Year's Eve, tonight is an ending and a beginning. I don't like endings and beginnings. I would always prefer to churn about in the middle. The worst thing about this particular end (of my youth) and beginning (of middle age) is that for the first time in my life, I realize that I don't know where I'm going. My wants are simple: a job that I like and a guy whom I love. And on the eve of my thirtieth, I must face that I am 0 for 2.

First, I am an attorney at a large Tokyo firm. By definition this means that I am miserable. Being a lawyer just isn't what it's cracked up to be-it's nothing like L.A. Law, the show that caused applications to law schools to skyrocket in the early nineties. I work excruciating hours for a mean-spirited, anal-retentive partner, doing mostly tedious tasks, and that sort of hatred for what you do for a living begins to chip away at you. So I have memorized the mantra of the law firm associate: I hate my job and will quit soon. Just as soon as I pay off my loans. Just as soon as I make next year's bonus. Just as soon as I think of something else to do that will pay the rent. Or find someone who will pay it for me.

Which brings me to my second point: I am alone in a city of millions. I have plenty of friends, as proven by the solid turnout tonight. Friends to Rollerblade with. Friends to summer with in the Hampton's. Friends to meet on a Thursday night after work for a drink or two or three. And I have Renge, my best friend from home, who is all of the above. But everybody knows that friends are not enough, although I often claim they are just to save face around my married and engaged girlfriends. I did not plan on being alone in my thirties, even my early thirties. I wanted a husband by now; I wanted to be a bride in my twenties. But I have learned that you can't just create your own timetable and will it to come true. So here I am on the brink of a new decade, realizing that being alone makes my thirties daunting, and being thirty makes me feel all the more alone.

The situation seems all the more dismal because my oldest and best friend has a glamorous PR job and is freshly engaged. Renge is still the lucky one. I watch her now, telling a story to a group of us, including her fiancé. Hikaru and Renge are an exquisite couple, lean and tall with red hair and gold eyes, she has brown hair with brown eyes. They are among New York's beautiful people. The well-groomed couple registering for fine china and crystal on the sixth floor at Bloomingdale's. You hate their smugness but can't resist staring at them when you're on the same floor searching for a not-too- expensive gift for the umpteenth wedding you've been invited to without a date. You strain to glimpse her ring, and are instantly sorry you did. She catches you staring and gives you a disdainful once-over. You wish you hadn't worn your tennis shoes to Bloomingdale's. She is probably think-ing that the footwear may be part of your problem. You buy your Waterford vase and get the hell out of there.

"So the lesson here is: if you ask for a Brazilian bikini wax, make sure you specify. Tell them to leave a landing strip or else you can wind up hairless, like a ten-year-old!" Renge finishes her bawdy tale, and every-body laughs. Except Hikaru, who shakes his head, as if to say, what a piece of work my fiancée is.

"Okay. I'll be right back," Renge suddenly says. "Tequila shots for one and all!"

As she moves away from the group toward the bar, I think back to all of the birthdays we have celebrated together, all of the benchmarks we reached together, benchmarks that I always reached first. I got my driver's license before she did, could drink legally before she could. Being older, if only by a few months, used to be a good thing. But now our fortunes have reversed. Renge has an extra summer in her twenties-a perk of being born in the fall. Not that it matters as much for her: when you're engaged or married, turning thirty just isn't the same thing.

Renge is now leaning over the bar, flirting with the twenty-something, aspiring actor/bartender whom she has already told me she would "totally do" if she were single. As if Renge would ever be single. She said once in high school, I don't break up, I trade up." She kept her word on that, and she always did the dumping. Throughout our teenage years, college, and every day of our twenties, she has been attached to someone. Often she has more than one guy hanging around, hoping.

It occurs to me that I could hook up with the bartender. I am totally unencumbered-haven't even been on a date in nearly two months. But it doesn't seem like something one should do at age thirty. One-night stands are for girls in their twenties. Not that I would know. I have fol-lowed an orderly, Goody Two-shoes path with no deviations. I got straight As in high school, went to college, graduated magna cum laude, took the LSAT, went straight to law school and to a big law firm after that. No backpacking in Europe, no crazy stories, no unhealthy, lustful relationships. No secrets. No intrigue. And now it seems too late for any of that. Because that stuff would just further delay my goal of finding a husband, settling down, having children and a happy home with grass and a garage and a toaster that toasts four slices at once.

So I feel unsettled about my future and somewhat regretful about my past. I tell myself that there will be time to ponder tomorrow. Right now I will have fun. It is the sort of thing that a disciplined person can simply decide. And I am exceedingly disciplined-the kind of child who did her homework on Friday afternoons right after school, the kind of woman (as of tomorrow, I am no longer any part girl) who flosses every night and makes her bed every morning.

Renge returns with the shots but Hikaru refuses his, so Renge insists that I do two. Before I know it, the night starts to take on that blurry quality, when you cross over from being buzzed to drunk, losing track of time and the precise order of things. Apparently Renge has reached that point even sooner because she is now dancing on the bar. Spinning and gyrat-ing in a little red halter dress and three-inch heels.

"Stealing the show at your party," Rei, my closest friend from work, says to me under her breath. "She's shameless."

I laugh. "Yeah. Par for the course."

Renge lets out a yelp, claps her hands over her head, and beckons me with a come-hither expression that would appeal to any man who has ever fancied girl-on-girl action. "Haruhi! Haruhi! C'mere!"

Of course she knows that I will not join her. I have never danced on a bar. I wouldn't know what to do up there besides fall. I shake my head and smile, a polite refusal. We all wait for her next move, which is to swivel her hips in perfect time to the music, bend over slowly, and then whip her body upright again, her long hair spilling every which way. The limber maneuver reminds me of her perfect imitation of Tawny Kitaen in the Whitesnake video "Here I Go Again," how she used to roll around doing splits on the hood of her father's BMW, to the delight of the pubescent neighborhood boys. I glance at Hikaru, who in these moments can never quite decide whether to be amused or annoyed. To say that the man has patience is an understatement. Hikaru and I have this in common.

"Happy birthday, Haruhi!" Renge yells. "Let's all raise a glass to Haruhi!"

Which everyone does. Without taking their eyes off her.

A minute later, Hikaru whisks her down from the bar, slings her over his shoulder, and deposits her on the floor next to me in one fluid motion. Clearly he has done this before. "All right," he announces. "I'm taking our little party-planner home."

Renge plucks her drink off the bar and stamps her foot. "You're not the boss of me, Hikaru! Is he, Haruhi?" As she asserts her independence, she stumbles and sloshes her martini all over Hikaru's shoe.

Hikaru grimaces. "You're wasted, Reng. This isn't fun for anyone but you."

"Okay. Okay. I'll go ... I'm feeling kind of sick anyway," she says, looking queasy.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"I'll be fine. Don't you worry," she says, now playing the role of brave little sick girl.

I thank her for my party, tell her that it was a total surprise-which is a lie because I knew Renge would capitalize on my thirtieth to buy a new outfit, throw a big bash, and invite as many of her friends as my own. Still, it was nice of her to have the party, and I am glad that she did. She is the kind of friend who always makes things feel special. She hugs me hard and says she'd do anything for me, and what would she do without me, her maid of honour, the sister she never had. She is gushing, as she always does when she drinks too much.

Hikaru cuts her off. "Happy birthday, Haruhi. We'll talk to you tomor-row." He gives me a kiss on the cheek.

"Thanks, Hikaru," I say. "Good night."

I watch him usher her outside, holding her elbow after she nearly trips on the curb. Oh, to have such a caretaker. To be able to drink with reckless abandon and know that there will be someone to get you home safely.

Some time later Hikaru reappears in the bar. "Renge lost her purse. She thinks she left it here. It's small, silver," he says. "Have you seen it?"

"She lost her new Chanel bag?" I shake my head and laugh because it is just like Renge to lose things. Usually I keep track of them for her, but I went off duty on my birthday. Still, I help Hikaru search for the purse, finally spotting it under a bar stool.

As he turns to leave, Hikaru's friend Tamaki, one of his groomsmen, con-vinces him to stay. "C'mon, man. Hang out for a minute."

So Hikaru calls Renge at home and she slurs her consent, tells him to have fun without her. Although she is probably thinking that such a thing is not possible.

Gradually my friends peel away, saying their final happy birthdays. Hikaru and I outlast everyone, even Tamaki. We sit at the bar making conversation with the bartender/actor who has an "Kasai" tattoo and zero interest in an aging lawyer. It is after two when we decide that it's time to go. The night feels more like midsummer than spring, and the warm air infuses me with sudden hope: this will be the summer I meet MY guy.

Hikaru hails me a cab, but as it pulls over he says, "How about one more bar? One more drink?"

"Fine," I say. "Why not?"

We both get in and he tells the cabbie to just drive, that he has to think about where next. We end up in Alphabet City at a bar on Seventh and Avenue B, aptly named 7B.

It is not an upbeat scene - 7B is dingy and smoke-filled. I like it any-way-it's not sleek and it's not a dive striving to be cool because it's not sleek.

Hikaru points to a booth. "Have a seat. I'll be right with you." Then he turns around. "What can I get you?"

I tell him whatever he's having, and sit and wait for him in the booth. I watch him say something to a girl at the bar wearing army-green cargo pants and a tank top that says "Fallen Angel." She smiles and shakes her head. "Omaha" is playing in the background. It is one of those songs that seems melancholy and cheerful at the same time.

A moment later Hikaru slides in across from me, pushing a beer my way. "Newcastle," he says. Then he smiles, crinkly lines appearing around his eyes. "You like?"

I nod and smile.

From the corner of my eye, I see Fallen Angel turn on her bar stool and survey Hikaru, absorbing his chiselled features, Spiked Hair, full lips. Haruhi complained once that Hikaru garners more stares and double takes than she does. Yet, unlike his female counterpart, Hikaru seems not to notice the attention. Fallen Angel now casts her eyes my way, likely wondering what Hikaru is doing with someone so average. I hope that she thinks we're a couple. Tonight nobody has to know that I am only a member of the wedding party.

Hikaru and I talk about our jobs and our Hampton's share that begins in another week and a lot of things. But Renge does not come up and neither does their September wedding.

After we finish our beers we move over to the jukebox, fill it with dollar bills, searching for good songs. I push the code for "Thunder Road" twice because it is my favourite song. I tell him this.

"Yeah. Springsteen's at the top of my list, too. Ever seen him in con-cert?"

"Yeah," I say. "Twice. Born in the U.S.A. and Tunnel of Love."

I almost tell him that I went with Renge in high school, dragged her along even though she much preferred groups like Poison and Bon Jovi. But I don't bring this up. Because then he will remember to go home to her and I don't want to be alone in my dwindling moments of twenty--somethingness. Obviously I'd rather be with a boyfriend, but Hikaru is bet-ter than nothing.

It is last call at 7B. We get a couple more beers and return to our booth. Some time later we are in a cab again, going north on First Avenue. "Two stops," Hikaru tells our cabbie, because we live on opposite sides of Central Park. Hikaru is holding Renge's Chanel purse, which looks small and out of place in his large hands. I glance at the silver dial of his Rolex, a gift from Renge. It is just shy of four o'clock.

We sit silently for a stretch of ten or fifteen blocks, both of us looking out of our respective side windows, until the cab hits a pothole and I find myself lurched into the middle of the backseat, my leg grazing his. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Hikaru is kissing me. Or maybe I kiss him. Somehow we are kissing. My mind goes blank as I listen to the soft sound of our lips meeting again and again. At some point, Hikaru taps on the Plexiglas partition and tells the driver, between kisses, that it will just be one stop after all.

We arrive on the corner of Seventy-third and Third, near my apart-ment. Hikaru hands the driver a twenty and does not wait for change. We spill out of the taxi, kissing more on the sidewalk and then in front of Koori, my doorman. We kiss the whole way up in the elevator. I am pressed against the elevator wall, my hands on the back of his head. I am sur-prised by how soft his hair is.

I fumble with my key, turning it the wrong way in the lock as Hikaru keeps his arms around my waist, his lips on my neck and the side of my face. Finally the door is open, and we are kissing in the middle of my studio, standing upright, leaning on nothing but each other. We stumble over to my made bed, complete with tight hospital corners.

"Are you drunk?" His voice is a whisper in the dark.

"No," I say. Because you always say no when you're drunk. And even though I am, I have a lucid instant where I consider clearly what was missing in my twenties and what I wish to find in my thirties. It strikes me that, in a sense, I can have both on this momentous birthday night. Hikaru can be my secret, my last chance for a dark twenty-something chap-ter, and he can also be a prelude of sorts-a promise of someone like him to come. Renge is in my mind, but she is being pushed to the back, overwhelmed by a force stronger than our friendship and my own con-science. Hikaru moves over me. My eyes are closed, then open, then closed again.

And then, somehow, I am having sex with my best friend's fiancé.

Review Please!! 5 Reviews and I'll do the next chappie Thanks!!!!

\,,,/(-_-)\,,,/ 123Inuluver321


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I don't own Ouran Highschool Host Club nor the book "Something Borrowed", they go to their respectable owners. Thanks

Chapter 2

I wake up to my ringing phone, and for a second I am disoriented in my own apartment. Then I hear Renge's high-pitched voice on my machine, urging me to pick up, pick up, please pick up. My crime snaps into focus. I sit up too quickly, and my apartment spins. Hikaru's back is to me, sculpted and smooth. I jab hard at it with one finger.

He rolls over and looks at me. "Oh, Christ! What time is it?"

My clock radio tells us it is seven-fifteen. I have been thirty for two hours. Correction—one hour; I was born in the central time zone.

Hika gets out of bed quickly, gathering his clothes, which are strewn along either side of my bed. The answering machine beeps twice, cutting Renge off. She calls back, rambling about how Hikaru never came home. Again, my machine silences her in midsentence. She calls back a third time, wailing, "Wake up and call me! I need you!"

I start to get out of bed, then realize that I am naked. I sit back down and cover myself with a pillow.

"Omigod. What do we do?" My voice is hoarse and shaking. "Should I answer? Tell her you crashed here?"

"Hell, no! Don't pick up—lemme think for a sec." He sits down, wearing only boxers, and rubs his jaw, now covered by a shadow of whiskers.

Sick, sobering dread washes over me. I start to cry. Which never helps anything.

"Look, Haruhi, don't cry," Hika says. "Everything's going to be okay."

He puts on his jeans and then his shirt, efficiently zipping and tucking and buttoning as though it is an ordinary morning. Then he checks the messages on his cell phone. "Shhhit. Twelve missed calls," he says matter-of-factly. Only his eyes show distress.

When he is dressed, he sits back on the edge of the bed and rests his forehead in his hands. I can hear him breathing hard through his nose. Air in and out. In and out. Then he looks over at me, composed. "Okay. Here's what's going to happen. Haruhi, look at me."

I obey his instructions, still clutching my pillow.

"This will be fine. Just listen," he says, as though talking to a client in a conference room.

"I'm listening," I say.

"I'm going to tell her I stayed out until five or so and then got breakfast with Kyoya. We got it covered."

"What do I tell her?" I ask. Lying has never been my strong suit.

"Just tell her you left the party and went home… Say you can't remember for sure whether I was still there when you left, but you think I was still there with Kyoya. And be sure to say you 'think'—don't be too definite. And that's all you know, okay?" He points at my phone. "Call her back now… I'll call Kyoya as soon as I leave here. Got it?"

I nod, my eyes filling with tears again as he stands.

"And calm down," he says, not meanly, but firmly. Then he is at the door, one hand on the knob, the other running through his auburn hair that is just long enough to be really sexy.

"What if she already talked to Kyoya?" I ask, as Hikaru is halfway out the door. Then, more to myself, "We are so screwed."

He turns around, looks at me through the doorway. For a second, I think he is angry, that he is going to yell at me to pull myself together. That this isn't life-or-death. But his tone is gentle. "Haru, we are not screwed. I got it covered. Just say what I told you to say… And Haruhi?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really sorry."

"Yeah," I say. "Me too."

Are we talking to each other—or to Renge?

As soon as Hikaru leaves, I reach for the phone, still feeling dizzy. It takes a few minutes, but I finally work up the nerve to call Renge.

She is hysterical. "The bastard didn't come home last night! He better be laid up in a hospital bed!… Do you think he cheated on me?"

I start to say no, that he was probably just out with Kyoya, but think better of it. Wouldn't that look too obvious? Would I say that if I knew nothing? I can't think. My head and heart are pounding, and the room is still spinning intermittently. "I'm sure he wasn't cheating on you."

She blows her nose. "Why are you sure?"

"Because he wouldn't do that to you, Ren." I can't believe my words, how easily they come.

"Well, then, where the fuck is he? The bars close by four or five. It's seven-freaking-thirty!"

"I don't know… But I'm sure there's a logical explanation."

Which, in fact, there is.

She asks me what time I left and whether he was still there and who he was with—the exact questions that Hikaru prepped me on. I answer carefully, as instructed. I suggest that she call Kyoya.

"I already called him," she says. "And that dumbass didn't answer his goddamn cell."

Yes. We have a chance.

I hear the click of call-waiting and Renge is gone, then back, telling me that it is Hikaru and she'll call me when she can.

I stand and walk unsteadily to my bathroom. I look in the mirror. My skin is blotchy and red. My eyes are ringed with mascara and charcoal liner, and they burn from sleeping in my contact lenses. I remove them quickly just before dry-heaving over my toilet. I haven't thrown up from drinking since college, and that only happened once. Because I learn from my mistakes. Most college kids say, "I will never do this again," and then do it the following weekend. But I stuck to it. That is how I am. I will learn from this one too. Just let me get away with it.

I shower, wash the smoke from my hair and skin with my phone resting on the sink, waiting to hear from Renge that everything is okay. But hours pass and she does not call. Around noon, the birthday well-wishers start dialing in. My dad does his annual serenade and the "guess where I was thirty years ago today?" routine. I manage to put on a good front and play along, but it isn't easy.

By three o'clock, I have not heard from Renge, and I am still queasy. I chug a big glass of water, take two Advil, and contemplate ordering fried eggs and bacon, which Renge swears by when she's hungover. But I know that nothing will kill the pain of waiting, wondering what is going on, if Hikaru is busted, if we both are.

Did anybody see us together at 7B? In the cab? On the street? Anyone besides Jose, whose job it is to know nothing? What was happening in their apartment? Had he gone mad and confessed? Was she packing her bags? Were they making love all day in an attempt to repair his conscience? Were they still fighting, going around and around in circles of accusation and denial?

Fear must supersede all other emotions—stifling shame or regret—because crazily enough, I do not seem to feel guilty about betraying my best friend. Not even when I find our used condom on the floor. The only real guilt I can muster is guilt over not feeling guilty. But I will repent later, just as soon as I know that I am safe. Oh, please, Kami. I have never done anything like this before. Please let me have this one pass. I will sacrifice all future happiness. Any chance of meeting a husband.

I think of all those deals I tried to strike with Him when I was in school, growing up. Please don't let me get any lower than a B on this math test. Please, I will do anything—work in a soup kitchen every Saturday instead of just once a month. Those were the days. To think that a C once symbolized all things gone wrong in my tidy world. How could I have ever, even fleetingly, wished for a dark side? How could I have made such a huge, potentially life-altering, utterly unforgivable mistake?

Finally I can't take it any longer. I call Renge's cell phone, but it goes straight to voice mail. I call their home number, hoping she will pick up. Instead Hikaru answers. I cringe.

"Hi, Hika. This is Haruhi," I say, trying to sound normal.

You know, the maid of honor in your upcoming wedding—the woman you had sex with last night?

"Hi, Haruhi," he says casually. "So did you have fun last night?"

For a second, I think that he is talking about us and am horrified by his nonchalance. But then I hear Renge clamoring for the phone in the background and realize that he is only talking about the party.

"Oh yeah, it was a great time—a great party." I bite my lip.

Renge has already snatched the phone from him. Her tone is chipper, fully repaired. "Hey. I'm sorry I forgot to call you back. You know, it was high drama over here for a while."

"But you're okay now? Everything's all right with you—and Hikaru?" I have trouble saying his name. As if it will somehow give me away.

"Um, yeah, hold on one sec."

I hear her close a door; she always moves into their bedroom when she talks on the phone. I picture their four-poster bed, which I helped Renge select from Charles P. Rogers. Soon to be their marital bed.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine now. He was just with Kyoya. They stayed out late and then ended up going to the diner for breakfast. But of course, you know, I'm still working the pissed-off angle. I told him he's totally pathetic, that he's a thirty-four-year-old engaged man and he stays out all night. Pathetic, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess so. But harmless enough." I swallow hard and think, yes, that would be harmless enough. "Well, I'm glad you guys made up."

"Yeah. I'm over it, I guess. But still… he should have called. That shit does not fly with me, you know?"

"I hear you," I say, and then bravely add, "I told you he wasn't cheating on you."

"I know… but I still pictured him with some stripper bimbo or something. My overactive imagination."

Is that what last night was? I know I'm not a bimbo, but was it some conscious choice of his to get laid before the wedding? Surely not. Surely he wouldn't choose Renge's maid of honor.

"So anyway, what did you think of the party? I'm such a bad friend—I get wasted and leave early. And, oh shit! Today's your actual birthday. Happy birthday! God, I'm the worst, Haru!"

Yeah, you're the bad friend.

"Oh, it was great. The party was so much fun. Thank you for planning it—it was a total surprise… really awesome…"

I hear their bedroom door open and Hikaru say something about being late.

"Yeah, I actually gotta run, Haruhi. We're going to the movies. You wanna come?"

"Um, no, thanks."

"Okay. But we're still on for dinner tonight, right? Rain at eight?"

I totally forgot that I had plans to meet Hikaru, Renge, and Ayame for a small birthday dinner. There is no way I can face Hikaru or Renge tonight—and certainly not together. I tell her that I'm not sure I'm up to it, that I am really hungover. Even though I stopped drinking at two, I add, before I remember that liars offer too much extraneous detail.

Renge doesn't notice. "Maybe you'll feel better later… I'll call you after the movie."

I hang up the phone, thinking that it was way too easy. But instead of feeling relieved, I am left with a vague dissatisfaction, wistfulness, wishing that I were going to the movies. Not with Hikaru, of course. Just someone. How quickly I turn my back on the deal with God. I want a husband again. Or at least a boyfriend.

I sit on the couch with my hands folded in my lap, contemplating what I did to Renge, waiting for the guilt to come. It doesn't. Was it because I had alcohol as an excuse? I was drunk, not in my right mind. I think of my first-year Criminal Law class. Intoxication, like insanity, infancy, duress, and entrapment, is a legal excuse, a defense where the defendant is not blameworthy for having engaged in conduct that would otherwise be a crime. Shit. That was only involuntary intoxication. Well, Renge made me do those shots. But peer pressure does not constitute involuntary intoxication. Still, it is a mitigating circumstance that the jury might consider.

Sure, blame the victim. What is wrong with me?

Maybe I am just a bad person. Maybe the only reason I have been good up to this point has less to do with my true moral fiber and more to do with the fear of getting caught. I play by the rules because I am risk-averse. I didn't go along with the junior-high shoplifting gags at the Blue Moon Pantry partly because I knew it was wrong, but mostly because I was sure that I would be the one to get caught. I never cheated on an exam for the same reason. Even now I don't take office supplies from work because I figure that somehow the firm's surveillance cameras will catch me in the act. So if that is what motivates me to be good, do I really deserve credit? Am I really a good person? Or just a cowardly pessimist?

Okay. So maybe I am a bad person. There is no other plausible explanation for my lack of guilt. Do I have it in for Renge? Was I driven by jealousy last night? Do I resent her perfect life—how easily things come to her? Or maybe, subconsciously, in my drunken state, I was getting even for past wrongs. Renge hasn't always been a perfect friend. Far from it. I start to make my case to the jury, remembering Arai back in elementary school. I am on to something… Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, consider the story of Arai Kochi…

Renge Houshakuji and I were best friends growing up, bonded by geography, a force greater than all else when you are in elementary school.

We moved to the same cul-de-sac in Tokyo, Japan, in the summer of 1976, just in time to attend the town's parade together. We marched side by side, beating matching red, white, and blue drums that Renge's father bought for us. I remember Renge leaning in to me and saying, "Let's pretend we're sisters." The suggestion gave me goose bumps—a sister! And in no time at all, that is what she became to me. We slept over at each other's houses every Friday and Saturday during the school year and most nights of the week during the summer. We absorbed the nuances of each other's family life, the sort of details you only learn when you live next door to a friend. I knew, for example, that Renge's mother folded towels in neat thirds as she watched The Young and the Restless, that Renge's father subscribed to Playboy, that junk food was allowed for breakfast, and the words "shit" and "damn" were no big deal. I'm sure she observed much about my home too, although it is hard to say what makes your own life unique. We shared everything—clothes, toys, yards, even our love of Tamaki Suoh and unicorns.

In the fifth grade we discovered boys. Which brings me to Aria, my first real crush. Renge, along with every other girl in our class, loved Takashi Morinozuka, "Mori". I understood Mori's appeal. I appreciated his midnight black hair that reminded us of fierce ravens. And the way his Wranglers fit his butt, his black comb tucked neatly inside the back left pocket. And his dominance in tetherball—how he casually and effortlessly socked the ball out of everyone's reach at a sharp upward angle.

But I loved Aria. I loved his unruly hair and the way his cheeks turned pink during recess and made him look like he belonged in a Renoir painting. I loved the way he rotated his number-two pencil between his full lips, making symmetrical little bite marks near the eraser whenever he was concentrating really hard. I loved how hyper and happy he was when he played four square with the girls (he was the only boy who would ever join us—the other boys stuck to tetherball and football). And I loved that he was always kind to the most unpopular boy in our class, Nekozawa Umehito, who had a cat puppet and an unfortunate bowl cut.

Renge was puzzled, if not irritated, by my dissent, as was our good friend Kanako Kasugazaki, who moved to our cul-de-sac two years after we did (this delay and the fact that she already had a sister meant she could never quite catch up and reach full best-friend status). Renge and Kanako liked Aria, but not like that, and they would insist that Mori was so much cuter and cooler—the two attributes that will get you in trouble when you choose a boy or a man, a sense that I had even at age ten.

We all assumed that Renge would land the grand Mori prize. Not only because Renge was bolder than the other girls, strutting right up to Mori in the cafeteria or on the playground, but also because she was the prettiest girl in our class. With high cheekbones, huge, well-spaced eyes, and a dainty nose, she has a face that is revered at any age, although fifth-graders can't pinpoint exactly what makes it nice. I don't think I even understood what cheekbones and bone structure were at age ten, but I knew that Renge was pretty and I envied her looks. So did Kanako, who openly told Renge so every chance she got, which seemed wholly unnecessary to me. Renge already knew she was pretty, and in my opinion she didn't need daily reinforcement.

So that year, on Halloween, Kanako, Renge, and I assembled in Kanako's room to prepare our makeshift geisha costumes—Renge had insisted that it would be an excellent excuse to wear lots of makeup. As she examined a pair of rhinestone earrings freshly purchased from Claire's, she looked in the mirror and said, "You know, Renge, I think you're right."

"Right about what?" I said, feeling a surge of satisfaction, wondering what past debate she was referring to.

She fastened one earring in place and looked at me. I will never forget that tiny smirk on her face—just the faintest hint of a smug smile. "You're right about Arai. I think I'm going to like him too."

"What do you mean, 'going to like him?"

"I'm tired of Takashi Morinozuka. I like Arai now. I like his dimples."

"He only has one," I snapped.

"Well, then I like his dim-ple."

I looked at Kanako for support, for words to the effect that you couldn't just decide to like someone new. But of course she said nothing, just kept applying her ruby lipstick, puckering before a handheld mirror.

"I can't believe you, Renge!"

"What's your problem?" she demanded. "Kanako wasn't mad when I liked Mori. We've shared him with the whole grade for months. Right, Kanako?"

"Longer than that. I started liking him in the summer. Remember? At the pool?" Kanako chimed in, always missing the big picture.

I glared at her, and she lowered her eyes remorsefully.

That was different. That was Mori. He belonged in the public domain. But Arai was exclusively mine.

I said nothing else that night, but trick-or-treating was ruined. The next day in school, Renge passed Arai a note, asking him if he liked me, her, or neither—with little boxes next to each selection and instructions to check one. He must have checked Renge's name because they were a couple by recess. Which is to say that they announced that they were "going out" but never spent any real time together, unless you count a few phone calls at night, often scripted ahead of time with Kanako giggling at her side. I refused to participate in or discuss her fledgling romance.

In my mind, it didn't matter that Renge and Arai never kissed, or that it was only the fifth grade, or that they "broke up" two weeks later when Renge lost interest and decided that she liked Takashi Morinozuka again. Or that, as my father told me for comfort, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. It only mattered that Renge stole Arai from me. Perhaps she did it because she really did change her mind about him; that's what I told myself so I would stop hating her. But more likely Renge took Arai just to show me that she could.

So, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in a sense, Renge Houshakuji had this coming to her. What goes around comes around. Perhaps this is her comeuppance.

I picture the faces of the jury. They are not swayed. The male jurors look bewildered—as if they miss the point altogether. Doesn't the prettiest girl always get the boy? That is precisely the way the world should work. An older woman in a sensible dress purses her lips. She is disgusted by the mere comparison—a fiancé to a fifth-grade crush! Good heavens! A perfectly groomed, almost beautiful woman, wearing a canary-yellow Chanel suit, has already identified and allied herself with Renge. There is nothing I can say to change her mind or mitigate my offense.

The only juror who seems moved by the Arai tale is a slightly overweight girl with a severe bob the color of day-old coffee. She slouches in the corner of the jury box, occasionally shoving her glasses up on her beak of a nose. I have tapped into this girl's empathy, her sense of justice. She is secretly satisfied by what I did. Maybe because she, too, has a friend like Renge, a friend who always gets everything she wants.

I think back to high school, when Renge continued to get any boy she wanted. I can see her kissing Ritsu Kasanoda by our locker and recall the envy that would well up inside me when I, boyfriendless, was forced to witness their shameless PDA. Ritsu transferred to our school from Kobe, Japan, in the fall of our junior year, and became an instant hit everywhere but in the classroom. Although he wasn't bright, he was the star receiver on our football team, the starting point guard for our basketball team, and, of course, our starting pitcher in the spring. And with his Ken-doll good looks, the girls loved him. Takashi Morinozuka, part two. But alas, he had a girlfriend named Cassandra back in Kobes to whom he claimed to be "110 percent committed" (a jock expression that has always bugged me for its obvious mathematical impossibility). Or so he was before Renge got in the mix, after we watched Ritsu pitch a no-hitter against Central and she decided that she had to have him. The next day she asked him to go see Les Miserables. You'd think a three-sport jock like Ritsu wouldn't be into musicals, but he enthusiastically agreed to escort her. After the show, in Renge's living room, Ritsu planted a large hickey on her neck. And the following morning, one Cassandra of Kobe, Japan, was dumped on her ear.

I remember talking to Kanako about Renge's charmed life. We often discussed Renge, which made me wonder how much they gossiped about me. Kanako contended that it wasn't only Renge's good looks or perfect body; it was also her confidence, her charm. I don't know about the charm, but looking back I agree with Kanako about the confidence. It was as if Renge had the perspective of a thirty-year-old while in high school. The understanding that none of it really mattered, that you only go around once, that you might as well go for it. She was never intimidated, never insecure. She embodied what everyone says when they look back on high school: "If I only knew back then."

But one thing I have to say about Renge and dating is this: she never blew us off for a guy. She always put her friends first—which is an amazing thing for a high school girl to do. Sometimes she blew her boyfriend off altogether, but more often she just included us. Four of us in a row at the theater. The flavor of the month, then Renge, then Kanako and me. And Renge always directed her whispered comments our way. She was brash and independent, unlike most high school girls who allow their feelings for a boy to swallow them up. At the time, I thought she just didn't love them enough. But maybe Renge just wanted to keep control, and by being the one who loved the least, that is what she had. Whether she did care less or just pretended to, she kept every one of them on the hook even after she cut them loose. Take Ritsu, for example. He is living in Kobe with a wife, three kids, and a couple of chocolate Labs, and he still e-mails Renge on her birthday every year. Now that is some kind of power.

To this day Renge talks wistfully of how great high school was. I cringe whenever she says it. Sure, I have some fond memories of those days, and enjoyed moderate popularity—a nice fringe benefit of being Renge's best friend. I loved going to football games with Kanako, painting our faces orange and blue, wrapping up in blankets in the bleachers, and waving to Renge as she cheered down on the field. I loved our Saturday-night trips to the Ice Cream Shop, where we always ordered the same thing—one turtle sundae, one Snickers pie, one double-chocolate brownie—and then split them among us. And I loved my first boyfriend, Ayame Jonocho, who asked me out during our senior year. Ayame was a rule-follower too, a Buddhist version of me. He didn't drink or do drugs, and he felt guilty even discussing sex. Renge, who lost her virginity our sophomore year to an exchange student from Spain named Carlos, was always instructing me to corrupt Ayame. "Grab his penis like this, and I guarantee, it's a done deal." But I was perfectly happy with our long make-out sessions in Ayame's family station wagon, and I never had to worry about safe sex or drunk driving. So if my memories weren't glamorous, at least I had a few good times.

But I also had plenty of bad times: the awful hair days, the pimples, the class pictures from hell, never having the right clothes, being dateless for dances, baby fat that I could never shed, getting cut from teams, losing the election for class treasurer. And the overwhelming feeling of sadness and angst that would come and go willy-nilly (or, more accurately, once a month), seemingly out of my control. Typical teenager stuff, really. Cliches, because it happens to everyone. Everyone but Renge, that is, who floated through those tumultuous four years unscathed by rejection, untouched by the adolescent ugly stick. Of course she loved high school—high school loved her.

Many girls with this view of their teenage years seem to really take it on the chin later in life. They show up at their ten-year reunion twenty pounds heavier, divorced, and reminiscing about their long-gone glory days. But the tide of glory days hasn't ebbed for Renge. No crashing and no burning. In fact, life just keeps getting sweeter for her. As my mother once said, uncharacteristically, Renge has the world by the balls. It was—and still is—the perfect description. Renge always gets what she wants. And that includes Hikaru, the dream fiancé.

I leave Renge a message on her cell, which will be turned off during the movie. I say that I am too tired to make it to dinner. Just getting out of going makes me less queasy. In fact, I am suddenly very hungry. I find my menus and call to order a hamburger with cheddar and fries. Guess I won't be losing five pounds before Memorial Day. As I wait for my delivery, I picture Renge and me playing with the phone book all those years ago, wondering about the future and what age thirty would bring.

And here I am, without the dashing husband, the responsible babysitter, the two kids. Instead my benchmark birthday is forever tainted by scandal… Oh, well. No point beating myself up over it. I hit redial on my phone and add a large chocolate milk shake to my order. I see my girl in the corner of the jury box wink at me. She thinks the milk shake is an excellent idea. After all, doesn't everyone deserve a few weak moments on her birthday?


End file.
